like the love that discovered sin
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: '"You," he accuses. "You're—" "Yes?" Cersei prompts him; a challenge and a question all wrapped into one as her eyes burrow under his skin like they have countless times before. What am I to you, now that you know' (Or, Cersei and Jaime make it to Pentos after all, and it marks the beginning of something entirely new). Character study, Cersei-centric.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: /Title taken from Hozier's _Be_, which also sort of serves as background./**

**Not much to say about this. Second - and last - chapter coming tomorrow or later today, hopefully; would have posted it as one, but it'd mess with the format I'd established of 'each of the Lannister trio gets the same portion of the fic' because Cersei is definitely getting twice the amount. Hence, she gets a POV in both chapters, and she'll share the next one with Tyrion. I do mean the summary - this is meant mostly as a character study, but it's very _very_ Cersei-centric at its core and is mostly about exploring the direction things could have possibly gone in had Tyrion's plan worked in canon. I preemptively apologise for any typos and/or mistakes - this was edited quite late but, to be honest, I was too eager to post something after two months of absence _and_ also have far too many finale-related fics ready to go to just let them pour out all at once.**

**Hope you guys enjoy it and, as always, feedback is most welcome!**

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Nearly two days pass before they find the first strip of land and, pathetically small as it is, Jaime is relieved nearly to the point of tears as he tries to show Cersei how to turn the boat as best as he can. They're still days away from Pentos, there's no doubt about that, but it'll do them good to stop for a while. It's been difficult enough so far and even though they'd pushed through it, everything has taken its toll – leaving King's Landing behind, watching as the sun had set behind the flames, pushing through the remains of the Iron Fleet until they'd ended up far away enough to feel truly safe – and they're both in desperate need of rest.

It's only when they tumble out and collapse on the sand that he notices that his sister's hands are shaking. She's trembling all over, really, but it's subtle enough that he knows she doesn't want him to see, as if keeping the struggle within the constraints of her body has ever been of any help at all. It's what makes it even more unbearable a display – the way she turns away from him, face cast in shadows as her breathing calms. They're both tired and hungry and very nearly out of water but, for the lack of a better option, she's been the one propelling them forward – the two of them, their limited clothing and a ridiculous amount of gold – towards the city supposed to be their salvation. It's not the kind of work that she's ever been used to, but Cersei endures it as she does most of the truly difficult things in her life – in silence.

"Help me," she says now as they sit by their boat, revelling in the blessed steadiness of the ground under their feet. She's tugging ineffectually at the hem of her dress and it suddenly dawns on him just how restrictive all that velvet must be in the warmth of the afternoon around them. It's a far cry from summer, unmistakably, but the sun feels far hotter here. He can only imagine what Pentos would bring. It shouldn't be _that_ different, but it would take some adjusting to after the years of autumn and winter they'd endured. "I need—"

"Here." There's no unlearning this and he digs under the bright decoration of the collar to unclasp it. It's almost muscle memory and the next natural step has always consisted of him roughly tugging her clothing off until she's bare in front of him, but Cersei gets to her feet and does it herself instead; pulls the dress over her head, peels the rest of her countless layers off and heads towards the water.

It's impossible not to smile at the sight she makes despite it all – regardless of the need for respite, the hunger and the hint of cluelessness for the future that everything is tinted in. Under all her finery, heavy and unforgiving and impenetrable, Cersei is the same she's always been when in contact with the sea – her bony shoulders fold in as she wraps her arms around her body as if it'll be enough to help her stay warm, her face scrunching up in discontent while she adjusts to the temperature. Her every movement is graceful even now; a queen to the bone, if a runaway one, and Jaime can't help himself – he sheds his clothes as quickly and quietly as he can, following her example even as his sister draws a deep breath and dives beneath the waves just as he'd expected her to do.

By the time she resurfaces, he's there waiting for her. He'd been quiet enough to startle her, much to his pleasure, and it doesn't end there – Cersei's frustrating lack of real reaction to _anything_ finally crumbles once she takes a quick, assessing look at him, eyes widening as she realises, "You're hurt."

"It's nothing."

It had very nearly been something – it had very nearly been a deathly blow, if he's honest – but there's no use of mentioning that now; not when he already knows that she'll pry the rest of the truth out of him either way.

"Who— Was it during the battle?" Her hands hover over his sides, unsure what parts of him are safe to touch. She settles for his face in the end, her grasp firm enough to force him to meet her gaze. The look in her eyes is so intense that it takes his breath away; _she_ takes his breath away, if he's honest, no matter how weary it makes him feel – just her, here, stripped of everything but him in the last light of the day. "Back in the North? Did you—"

The laughter, bitter as it is, escapes him before Jaime can rein it in. "Not the North, no. Your betrothed turned out to be more dangerous than the army of the dead. Then again, the dead weren't quite so easy to provoke."

Warding off the mindless mass of wights had been a feat so nightmarish that looking back at it now feels like a half-forgotten dream, too overwhelming to be real. On the other hand, their escape from the Red Keep and all the obstacles he'd met on the way had been so viscerally nerve-racking that Jaime's quite sure every step he'd made would haunt him for the rest of time.

"Euron?" Cersei's voice breaks through his musings and he scowls at her; all the response she could require. "I thought he was _dead_." Westeros is far behind them by now – so far that Jaime can barely see the smoke still rising above King's Landing from here – but her carelessness still gives him more satisfaction than he would readily admit to. "Why would you go after him?"

It's not entirely fair to pin this on her, he knows, not when she hadn't known that either of them had been on their way to her, but, "He _is_ dead; I made sure of that. Because _he_ was coming after _you_. If I hadn't been there already, you might have had an easier time rowing that boat to Pentos." _Euron and his two good hands_. They hadn't been of much use to him in the end and he'd slowed him down almost enough for it to be too late, but his sister doesn't seem concerned with any of that just now. If anything, she looks more unsettled than she'd been while the city had been crumbling around her. Whether it's caused by the possibility he'd just painted for her or the image of him wasting his time on a duel while the world had burned on the other side of the secret entrance he'd used, he's not entirely sure, and he gets his answer a moment later.

"Jaime." It's just his name, but she sounds so awed and appalled at the same time that his hearts stutters painfully in his chest. The fact that she doubts his abilities to the point of fearing for his life would have been enough of an offence for him to pull away, but he can't bring himself to do anything of the sort when her touch is as tender as it is; when he's missed all of this too much for words. "He could have _killed_ you."

"_He_ could have killed me?" She's exhausted, Jaime tries to remind himself; exhausted and hungry and _pregnant_ and lacking the crown and kingdom she'd had less than two days ago and perhaps he could stand to be a little kinder. His grip on her arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "Cersei, you sent a fucking cutthroat after me!"

She snorts derisively in response, entirely unapologetic, and the tension dissipates. "Bronn is no cutthroat; he's a manipulative little leech. He would have never killed you." She thoughtfully traces one of his wounds with her fingertips, following the line that Euron's blade had left. "I just wanted you to know that I was capable of doing it. And that you and Tyrion were all the same to me now."

It's exactly the kind of explanation he'd expected, and really, "You didn't kill him either." He'd heard the story of the execution of Daenerys's handmaiden a handful of times during his hours in captivity and Cersei's noncommittal shrug is the only confirmation that he needs. It's the infuriating calm of it all that frustrates him the most and there's more of that to come, the admissions piling on top of one another as she unveils the past few months of her life to him.

"Of course I didn't kill him."

He _understands_, that's the worst part of it – for all her lying and plotting, this is what it all eventually boils down to. Family. Those she's lost and those still here and, he thinks, more than a little thrilled as he wraps his arms around her waist, those still to come. He presses his forehead against hers, trying his hardest not to respond to the sly curl of her lips; the kind of smirk that always means she knows she's won.

"He was the one who brought me to you, did you know that?"

"I guessed. It _was_ one of his better ideas, I'll give him that, although he should have known better than to side with the Targaryen girl to begin with." The self-satisfied expression turns a little sadder, now, as if the sympathy that had slipped through is less than welcome. "He has too much faith in people. It could kill him one day, even if I didn't."

It _is_ unwelcome now that she's voiced it and Jaime's face falls before he can school his features into something remotely comforting. "You don't think it's going to kill him now?"

"Not this time, no." And the glint in her eyes is back, as malicious as it is triumphant. "If anything, I'd bet his sudden lack of faith has already killed _her_. Oh, spare me," his sister waves him off when he raises an eyebrow, half-disbelief and half-bewilderment, "it was never going to last for her once she was backed into a corner like that. Had she not caused so much chaos so quickly, it might have even happened soon enough for us to _stay_. It's only a matter of time before one of her generals sees the destruction for what it is and I can guarantee you who is going to whisper the encouragement in that general's ear right before she dies."

And just like that, it all clicks into place; the fact that he'd found her still in her chambers when he'd arrived, the strange calm that had reigned over her ever since they'd left the Red Keep and – more than anything – the way she'd looked at the destruction in front of her before he'd pulled her away. She'd looked terrified and shell-shocked and victorious and it all makes sense now that he knows just what she'd been thinking at the time.

"You," he accuses as her barely noticeable smile blossoms into the sort of unholy grin _he's missed far too much_ and he knows he's the perfect mirror of her just now; knows that he shouldn't be, that he should have clung to his disappointment from the last time they'd met before the city had been sacked and done _something_ to steer her in a better direction now that they're so far away from it all, but he can't. For better or worse, this is what she is, this is what they are, and he doesn't think he's ever been as drunk on it as he is now. "You're—"

"Yes?" Cersei prompts him and although it's still a joke to her, as much as everything apart from their lives always is, there's a challenge in her tone too; a challenge and a question all wrapped into one as her eyes burrow under his skin like they have countless times before. _What am I to you, now that you know?_ It's nothing but mockery, if they're honest with themselves; mockery and needless answers and the thought sends an age-old thrill running through his body. He's always known.

A lesser man would drown her right where she stands, Jaime thinks, and tilts her head up to kiss her instead.

~.~

Every inch of her body burns.

It's the boat and the rowing at first; the vast, empty stretch of sea that had surrounded them from all sides as she'd pushed through the exhaustion and the deep-seated ache in her arms. The brief moments of rest had somehow managed to make it even worse, as had the endless patience that Jaime still seems keen on, patience and near-reverence at the fact that she's _there_ despite his lingering resentment at her actions. He clings to her with a surprising ferocity, both literally and by watching over every move she makes, anxious about every decision, no matter how insignificant. He's afraid and hopeful and happy and perhaps a little angry and frankly, he can keep wading through his feelings forever for all Cersei cares. She doesn't regret a single thing.

Daenerys Targaryen is dead, just as she'd expected. A city had paid for her displeasure before someone – Ned Stark's bastard of all people, from what she'd heard – had intervened, but she's _dead_. A man had been trialled and exiled for it, her brother had assumed leadership while still in chains for his betrayal – a Lannister through and through, even in his darkest hour – and a new king had been chosen, namely Brandon Stark. The Queen had likely died in the attack, everyone says. She'd watched over the city until the last possible moment, even after she'd surrendered it, according to the few survivors of the Red Keep; even after the army had given up, their Queen had been there until the Keep itself had crumbled over them all.

No one had seen it coming. The same can be said about the day the Sept of Baelor had gone up in flames, she supposes, but it's different this time. She could go home, Cersei suddenly realises – they could _both_ go home, return to Casterly Rock and assume their places as Lady and Lord as they had always been meant to. Everything they'd ever done, no matter how atrocious, pales in front of the measures taken against yet another Targaryen that had threatened and – for quite a portion of the population – destroyed their safety. The people had accepted her as Queen and they would accept her as the Warden of the West if she chose to claim her birthright. She'd proven herself as a serious enough ruler too many times to count, as much as Jaime had proven himself a worthy Commander. He would like that too, she could bet, and as for their child...

Cersei chances a look in her brother's direction and receives a tentative smile in return. The many pains of their voyage and the current necessity to get to their first destination on horseback (it's a side saddle and she's always found it greatly uncomfortable, but it's not like she has much of a choice – every piece of clothing she still possesses is a gown of some kind) fade away by a fraction at the sight of him. There are still months to go before the child arrives. With any luck, they'll have it all figured out by then.

"This could do," Jaime says and for a fleeting second, it almost feels like he's echoing her thoughts before they both slow their pace in front of what appears to be an inn. They'd passed a few already in the outskirts of the city, but none that had felt even remotely adequate. Better than what they'd had until now, she supposes – they'd ended up reaching Essos an impressive distance away from Pentos and had made do with the horses they'd brought and the food they could get from any passing merchant before facing yet another night under the stars – but it's one thing to put up with the temporary misery of their circumstances when only Jaime can see her and quite another to be forced to sleep in some of the most disgusting establishments imaginable. Sleeping without a roof over her head Cersei can bear, but lowering herself to yet another public humiliation even if she's unrecognisable to the locals is not something her dignity would be able to take, she suspects. This place, however – with its tall fences, bright golden windowsills and unreasonably high prices – fits them perfectly. _At long last_.

"It will," she nods and gratefully climbs off her horse, making her way towards what appears to be the stables while her brother makes the arrangements for their stay. It doesn't take long at all and what feels like moments later, Cersei is back on familiar territory, barking orders at the servants they'd been provided with to draw her a bath at once. Everything about her feels heavy and dirty and infused with seawater and the distant remnants of ash and dust and she desperately needs to be clean to feel like herself once more. She sinks into the warm water and scrubs her skin red until it feels brand new again; until all she can smell is the heavy scent of the oils she'd poured liberally onto her body.

It doesn't take long before her peace is disturbed and Cersei smiles, eyes still closed, when she feels warm water tricking through the strands of her hair and over her shoulders, soon followed by a clumsy hand rubbing soap into her scalp until she gives up and leans back into the caress.

"You could always join me."

"Not enough room." There might be – just barely – but Jaime clearly has something different in mind. He washes the lather away and moves on to her shoulders and she has to bite back a displeased gasp when he presses into something altogether too sensitive.

"Don't," she says through gritted teeth and twists around to glare at him when he insists, only to receive a gentle push back towards her original position instead of a response. "It _hurts_."

"I know. Sore muscles," he clarifies when she refuses to let the tension go. "It'll get worse before it gets better. Trust me."

_Always_. It's a small admission and it's dangerously close to being voiced before Cersei redirects her line of thought towards a topic safer than trust. "You must have needed quite a lot of the same back North." A sound of acknowledgment. "You'll have to tell me all about it. I've missed so much."

"You did." It doesn't sound like an accusation; the words far softer than his touch is even before he allows himself a rueful laugh. "I've missed _this_."

Despite her better judgement, Cersei shifts in the bath until she can look him in the eye, batting his hand away when he tries to insist. She's missed it too – missed _him_, really – but he already knows that. He must. They had never been particularly good at separation and every day without her twin had stretched out longer than she'd imagined possible, each more painful than the last. Still, "You're the one who left."

"I was, wasn't I?" It's still there; that sad, cynical twist of his lips that makes her feel like she's looking in a mirror and Cersei wants nothing more than to erase it as soon as she can. There are few things as disconcerting as being reminded of herself when looking at _him_. "I thought it was worth it; fighting when the stakes were this high. I was right. And afterwards— I tried— I thought I could—" She waits, breath stuck in her throat as Jaime stumbles through what feels increasingly like a confession and finally, he spits out, "_stay_. It was— I wasn't welcome there, but it didn't matter. It was the first time I had time to think, and I thought that everything could _wait_ – the war for the Throne, the Kingsroad, returning to King's Landing... right before Daenerys Targaryen decided that she needed to march on the capital immediately and you decided to spit on her at Dragonstone and Euron fucking Greyjoy killed one of her beasts—"

"He was acting on my orders." She might as well say it, she figures. He's definitely come to the same conclusion already, but it always feels safer to voice her worst deeds before he's had the chance to brush it all away. It had been her fault – all of it – and Cersei's heart feels like it's about to break its way through her ribs as she admits to it. She already had, back on those first days on the boat, but this feels far more important – they're safe and alive and uncertain about their place in the world and the more time they spend together, the more certain she feels that she needs to make sure that she's not leaning back into his arms blindly; that he's still here because he wants to be.

It's one thing to trust someone with your life and another entirely to believe that they'll be there for the future that comes after survival and, as much as she dreads to remind herself of that, his initial departure had shaken her to the core in a way that few other things had ever managed. The two of them separated had been a ridiculous idea to even consider before it had suddenly become the reality she'd thought she would have to live with for the rest of her life; attempting to push him away just to see if it'll be enough feels like the only option she's got.

It flies right past her brother's attention, of course, just like the majority of her attempts to provoke him, and she feels the knot in her chest loosen bit by bit when he speaks again. "I _know_. It was necessary; I know that too. For all of Tyrion's reassurances, I could never see her taking the city without spilling blood. I left as soon as I was sure that she wouldn't."

It's not a clear enough answer. It should be and greed doesn't – _shouldn't_ – suit her now that she's stripped of everything that had shaped her life for so many years, but Cersei can't help herself. It's the _necessity_ of him coming back that she doesn't understand; the implication that it's something beyond his control. It frightens her as much as it thrills her and nothing is worse than giving either of these emotions a name; nothing apart from the realisation that if she were to ask him to do the same, the response might end up being _duty_. "And in that time," she wonders aloud, sitting up in the bath so that they're nearly at the same height, him in the shadows that the fire casts over his face and her still burning from head to toe, "if there had been someone else—"

"There was."

His eyes fall shut as soon as he speaks and Cersei isn't sure if it's because he hadn't meant to mention it at all or because he'd dreaded her response; isn't feeling kind enough to spare him the trouble of worrying. When he looks at her again, she masks the irrational stab of betrayal but lets some of the irritation seep through, for his benefit more than anything else. It seems to have the desired effect – his pained grimace turns satisfied. It feels good to know you're wanted, even more so for him – few things seem to feel better than that, and she lets him have it. "And?"

Just like that, the smugness evaporates. She had expected it to, as well as the mild contempt that steals its way over his features, and holds her ground. _Let him see_. If he means for them to stay together, just like they had both always chosen to before, then they both need to know what the choice had cost. "And nothing."

And oh, she _tries_. Tries to keep her expression unwavering, her look as inquisitive and uninvolved as possible, but it's a lost cause – she's leaning forward before she knows it, head tilting to the side like the learnt gesture she'd reserved for only the most asinine of complaints that had been brought to her while holding court. Jaime must recognise it well enough after the months spent by her side in the Throne room and his eyes narrow, confusion mixed with resignation and the kind of sickly-sweet fondness that she somehow always manages to inspire in him. She tries to hold back the abrupt, half-stifled laugh that escapes her too, but it's no use. "Nothing."

It's not a question – she understands; it's the same desperate nothingness that had never spared her in his absence – but her brother nods all the same. Emboldened, she presses further. "What was she like?"

"Cersei," Jaime warns – or pleads, it's not entirely clear. It's become very quiet around them, suddenly; even the chatter in the tavern downstairs seems to have finally died out and her name is the only thing hanging in the air between them; the only sign she should have ever needed that he's here no matter what.

She's never been too good at being sated by what she's been offered, she knows.

"It's a simple enough question." Cersei reaches out, fingers hooking on the laces of his shirt to tug him closer. Jaime follows and his eyes stray to her lips like they always do, as if it's some unspoken command he's been born to follow. It doesn't make her feel better in the slightest, even if it makes her entire body stand on edge in anticipation. "It must have been different if you really were trying to forget."

"I never said that." He's the one holding his breath now and she wonders, for an instant, if she'd been too cruel without meaning to. It doesn't feel like it – if anything, he seems agitated. "I didn't want to forget, just to see if there was another—" He trails off at the unexpected lack of interruption and huffs, sounding too resigned for it to be anything but a display of exasperation. "It _was_ different. Is that what you want to hear? You should know better than anyone what it's like."

Oh, he might as well have slapped her. In fact, Cersei rather thinks she would have preferred it. She prepares to strike back, only to recoil at the trepidation written all over her twin's face.

"I don't know what you imagine it was like for me," she says; an admission as well as an attack. He should know better after all those years. He _does_ know better, really, but it wouldn't be him if everything she did wasn't somehow turned into a personal slight. "Survival is more important what I do or do not want. Since I doubt it was the same for you," and she hasn't let go of him yet, understands the implications of keeping him close while telling him to leave, but it's not an impulse she can overpower. It never has been. Her other hand darts out, quick as a snake, to slip into his hair and Jaime closes his eyes, breath leaving him on a trembling sigh as if he's been waiting exactly for this. She should feel guilty for it, perhaps, but the display of it makes desire coil somewhere deep inside her and she hates it, hates herself for it, hates _him_, even, and, "I can't help but wonder why you didn't _stay_."

Despite all her previous needling, it's this that raises his ire. "Do you _want_ me to leave?"

"_I_ don't want anything." It's a lie, of course, and the fact that he doesn't visibly react to it is a small mercy. "You can do as you please. What I wanted was to _understand_."

"I wanted to get back to you." The explanation so sincere, so simple; almost as if he doesn't realise just how much she craves to hear it. Almost as if it's not obvious that she'd made him voice it. "There's nothing more to it. I thought of the city burning and I thought of you burning with it and nothing," he's reaching out too, now, fingers sliding down her collarbone, wrapping around her shoulder to keep her near like she could ever think of pulling away, and it feels like yet another kind of fire. It's not different at all, really – Cersei remembers what the city burning had been like, remembers ash and death and terror and the most desperate kind of love she's ever known raising its head once more and sees it all in Jaime's eyes now, "_nothing_ could have happened to stop me. I could have stayed. I could have given up more times than you realise." He's holding her tighter than before, with the same ferocity he'd displayed back on their first night in the open sea, angry and desperate and loving enough to bruise. It's a finer feast than anything she's laid her eyes on before. "If I wanted to leave, I would have."

The kiss, when it comes, is his doing, just like every other time since they had left. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like her choice to make and while she's sure she'll shake it off eventually, she lets it happen on his terms for now; lets him get up and pull her to her feet and appraise her with his eyes once she's standing in front of him, bare of any pretence she'd fought so hard for. It's angry and punishing at first, a wordless reprimand that only gets more insistent when her lips part under his and her brother's fingertips dig into her cheek, but it melts into something else entirely before long and Cersei trembles in his arms.

It feels rather unfair for him to still be so overdressed and she does her best to rectify that immediately, relishing in the breathy, delighted laugh it gets her in return, somehow still surprised by her need for him after all those years. Jaime's eyes are alight and it's not unlike giving themselves entirely over to a life completely different than anything they've ever known; not unlike being born anew.

Cersei thinks back to the hesitation in his eyes when they'd stopped for the night and the ever-careful question he'd posed, the way his tentative hope pales in front of the blazing heat she's faced with now as he presses her to his chest, and finds herself grinning back despite her better judgement. It's wild and unrestrained and terrifying and she dives right in. _Oh, yes. This will most definitely do._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: If chapters had titles, this one might have been named, _Cersei has a breakdown and self-discovery for three thousand words straight_, because that's exactly what it is. Tyrion will get his own chapter and this one became a standalone because they both just got altogether too long to stay in the same space. Really, this is just character study - I wanted to just dump this twist on Tyrion's POV, but it would have felt underdeveloped, all things considered. It's likely overdeveloped now, but what can you do.**

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Nearly a year passes before Cersei dares to think of home again. The sun has long since set over the city, still bursting with life, and it's all she can remember, suddenly – the biting cold in the early mornings, the Rock, the right side of the sea, King's Landing at her feet, temptingly familiar, the Red Keep, even – her prison and home and centre of power for over twenty years. None of it is hers anymore, but it's a word – a wish – away, easy as most things tend to be when she wants something.

_Jaime_, she thinks; almost imagines the look on his face even though he's two floors below, entirely unaware of the storm clouds that had been gathering over her mind for weeks now,_ I want us to go home._

It's ridiculous on her part, she knows, and more than a little ungrateful. They have everything they need here; had found a far more accommodating world than they had ever dreamt of. Life in Pentos is simpler than it had been there and although it's impossible not to miss Westeros when she looks out towards the Narrow Sea and remembers it and everything that she'd lost with it, it's all a little easier to bear now that she's gained something too. Most of the time, it's enough. It has to be.

It pales in comparison to what she'd once had, but she had turned her back on _that_ the day she had let Jaime lead her away from the Red Keep and they'd sailed away from everything they'd ever known. Back then, she had been relieved to the point of tears; now, in the relative safety of this new world, she can feel the joy of survival slowly slip into the altogether too familiar restlessness of wanting _more_. What she has is perfect, more than, and she cherishes it more than words can say, but it's still there – the hunger clawing at her insides, the sharp pangs of being denied. It comes and goes, just like it had before, waves of unspeakable longing battled by moments of sheer contentment, and she lets the latter wash over her now as she turns away from the sea and seeks her daughter's eyes instead.

Ellyn is asleep, finally, after being fed and comforted and sung to for even longer than she would usually need. She doesn't understand much of anything yet, but she dislikes any kind of prolonged parental absence; that much is clear already. Jaime had held her for a while – as long as Cersei had needed to finish the finer details of a contract they'd needed one of their newest buyers to sign – and had swiftly passed her back to her mother when it had been his turn to talk the man into paying an even higher sum for his purchase. She doesn't mind, only too happy to spend as much time away from the petty details of bargaining as she can. It's yet another thing slowly chipping away at her resolve to keep her head down and she feels the thoughts from earlier tonight – unwelcome and ever-present and age-old – make themselves known again.

_Home_. It's what it all boils down to, eventually. _I need to speak to Jaime._

The plan had been to retire for the night as early as possible given the day they would have tomorrow, but she can't quite manage it; not when her body is still thrumming with anxiety, the odd, indescribable thrill that seeing a life end usually brings, and the ever-increasing need to keep her child away from the life they'd had to choose for themselves. It's easy for now – will keep being so for years, perhaps – but the worry is still there, always present in the back of her mind even as she holds her close. Her mere presence is a comfort, of course, and Cersei had defied fate and prophecy and destruction to end up here. Something as inconsequential as a near-stranger's death shouldn't have been enough to unsettle that belief.

They had executed the prince tonight. Cersei hadn't known him well and he had had no family to mourn him apart from a younger brother and a niece, but it had been a startling spectacle all the same. Pentos's bloody ritual of disposing of any supposed ruler who hadn't brought them good luck had never bothered her when she'd read about it in stories and it had barely done so now, but it's the _uncertainty_ of it that makes her squirm. The Magisters are the ones who rule the city, truly, and although she and Jaime had wormed their way into that particular class, they stand out far too much for comfort.

It's visible always visible, no matter how much they like to pretend. It's in the compromises everyone makes for them, in the fearful glances when they speak up, in the silences that stretch out after an unintentionally outlandish idea being voiced – Pentos means safety and a different sort of power and a new beginning and _they don't belong here_. It's easy to feel powerful when a world is laid at your feet and less so when it's a world as flimsy as this one.

A new coronation will follow tomorrow and a new prince will be chosen and the Magisters will be the only institution to remain unshakeable, of course, or so she's always been told. She had convinced herself that once they had been accepted in their midst, that certainty would spread over her and Jaime as well and had never had a reason to question it before. She barely has one now, but here – alone on the balcony, faced with the quickly-darkening horizon hiding any distant hint of home from her view – here, Cersei can't help but _wonder_.

Trading in gold had proved to be surprisingly easy after a lifetime of using it to their advantage. Not just gold, either; it's gold and silks and precious stones and every other little thing they can take for themselves and make even more enticing for anyone willing to come close enough to ask for it. Cersei hadn't found it particularly difficult to exploit the fruit of lands she'd seized from others when she had become Queen and nothing has changed now apart from the fact that they're not only outsiders, but somewhat of an attraction for the locals – wanted and loved and despised; a curiosity for the good people of Pentos to gawk at if they so choose.

It's impossible to tell how long it will take before they tire of it enough to decide that they are about as beneficial as the former prince and their heads end up rolling off the edge of some ceremonial table or another because they aren't worth the trouble anymore. The prospect is just intimidating enough to make the breath stick to her throat, heavy and suffocating. Not the child, no, she would never allow it. She had already secured a way out for her, should the need arise, even if she'd kept it from her brother so far. It's exhausting for him, she knows, the concern bordering on paranoia, but it's the only way of feeling relatively safe that she knows. _Never again_. Not her little girl.

Ellyn fusses in her arms as she's shifted into a more comfortable position and grins at the kiss her mother places at the top of her head and it's so _easy_ to forget that she's not untouchable that it's no surprise that Cersei had managed to fool herself into thinking that all three of them are safe. She had wanted to believe it so desperately that she had very nearly made it come true. Perhaps she had succeeded; their lives here had had a rather smooth beginning. It's impossible to tell what the future will bring and she tries to channel her effort towards reminding herself of that. If there is one thing infants hate, she's found, it's feeling their parents's anxiety and she slowly lets go of it now, allowing herself a deep breath right before calling for her handmaiden to come assist her as they prepare for bed.

Seelia Hestyris's services – along with her twin brother's – had been a rather extravagant gift from one of the Magisters shortly after their council had warily accepted Cersei and Jaime as one of their own. They had been reluctant about offending their Westerosi sensibilities with the not-quite-slaves that did the majority of service for the nobles in the city and instead, the man had offered his own children's aid, an honour of the highest order. Seelia is loud and brash and tactless and she would have made an atrocious lady in waiting for any self-respecting local and easily the best possible fit for Cersei, especially once her enthusiasm for both clothing and children is taken into account. It had saved her the trouble of finding a seamstress _and_ someone she can trust enough to stay with her baby when both she and Jaime are away and she's reminded of it once more now as the girl flutters in before she'd had the chance to call for her again, wheeling in a wooden chest large enough to contain all of her worldly possessions. None of it is for her, of course – just more work for Cersei to face tomorrow and perhaps one of the possible dresses she'd requested to be additionally decorated for the coronation – but it's impossible to discern that from the reverence she treats it with.

"My Lady? Your Lord husband was asking after you. Shall I—"

"My Lord husband can find his own way to the bed, I'm sure." Whatever it is that Jaime needs, it can wait until they're alone. Neither of them had felt the need to be discreet – everyone knows the truth as it is, and the word _husband_ tastes rather sweet on her tongue no matter how often it is used – but it wouldn't do to flaunt themselves in front of clients. Her crown had protected her from the worst consequences before, but it's not there to do so anymore. Cersei carefully pushes the thought away. Later, they would talk. It had been building up for so long now and she'll be damned if she misses her opportunity. It shouldn't be too difficult, really. He had never dared to voice it into existence, no more than she has, but she knows her twin must miss their previous life as well. It's one of the many reasons she'd kept quiet – a word from her would send them back across the sea in no time and the prospect is as promising as it is troubling. "What have you got for me?"

"More parchment," the girl grins, opening the chest and deposing a rather impressive pile of it onto her desk. "Lord Ascelyn needed the silk for his sails, I heard, and I can bet anything you would like that Your Ladyship will have to negotiate the price for a long while."

"An easy bet to make." It's about to be another sleepless night, then. Cersei kisses her daughter goodnight and lowers her in the crib as carefully as possible, grateful when she doesn't stir from her slumber. She's about as demanding when it comes to attention as Joffrey had been, even if she's much calmer, and she'd give it to her at all times if possible, as unreasonable as the idea is. Her body has its limits, after all. "Anything else?"

"The alterations you requested for the coronation, My Lady. It's just, the dress—" Seelia looks away, then down, suddenly nervous. "I might have taken some liberties. Oh, my lady mother would be most wroth, had she known." Things that make her lady mother most wroth tend to be rather good ideas, usually, so Cersei waits until her handmaiden gives in and turns to her chest again to carefully pull out another one of her creations. "You wanted one of the red ones, and this— it _is_ red, just darker, and I've added the rubies at the front, see, and the golden chain under the chest."

"Exactly as requested," Cersei notes, puzzled by both the uncharacteristic display of nervousness and the choice of clothing. After all, "I must say, it's been quite a while since I needed this one."

"I _know_." She's still fidgeting, one hand smoothing over the scarlet satin flowers that decorate the belt, placed somewhat higher than the usual cuts of her gowns. "I've tightened it a bit – a lot – for now, but I can let it out again when you need it. It's just, the rubies and your house colours— fitting for a coronation, don't you think?"

It is – it's the right call, just as usual, there's a reason Cersei had trusted her with this, but she feels the perplexed smile slowly desert her. The reluctance in Seelia's tone is a familiar one; saved for topics that should never be discussed in public but are inevitable all the same. She knows it well from the years spent as Queen Consort and each time one of her seamstresses had dared to mention that perhaps it was _time to consider one of the gowns from before just before Prince Joffrey was born, Your Grace_, but this is _different_. There is no way it isn't. The girl had dressed her for the past year; had taken measurements of every inch of her body to make notes about every new piece of clothing she produced, and she and Jaime had been so _busy_; too busy for her to notice anything outside of the effort of clawing her way up the precariously balanced ladder they had chosen to climb. Still, surely not? Surely she would have noticed if— if—

"My Lady? Are you all right?"

"Quite." _If she's pregnant_. She hadn't even considered it, truth be told; hadn't imagined the possibility. Joffrey and Myrcella had been rather close after one another, but she had been rather pedantic about the proceedings surrounding conception then – had made sure that everything would line up for the perfect moment to produce another royal heir – and they hadn't been anywhere near as cautious now. No reason to be so, and she hadn't dared to hope— "That will be all."

The girl still insists on fussing around her and it's rather infuriating – Cersei's heart feels stuck somewhere high in her chest and she can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but give in to the most terrifying sort of happiness she's ever known. She knows it well by now, too, and it's even more painful for that. Perhaps this is why she hadn't realised, she supposes – it had been too much, too soon; too good, too undeserved for someone who should have never been given another chance.

And to think – she had considered going _home_. Hysterical laughter bubbles up her throat and Cersei bites it back as well as she can, arms instinctively wrapping around her body as if it can render her invisible.

It's not quite as effective as she had hoped for.

"I must say, you look quite pale. Ser Jaime—"

"He will be here shortly, I'm sure." She finds it in herself to look up and steer her handmaiden towards the door with only a glance. "That will be _all_, Seelia."

Poor training or not, she knows better than to linger and soon enough, Cersei is blissfully alone again.

It can't be. She doesn't have her flock of ladies in waiting or Qyburn or even a Maester of any sort here and it's her own fault, really, for not seeing the signs – her body had always been somewhat of an afterthought when compared to the overall picture of her life. Jaime can't be trusted to notice or see the symptoms for what they are unless it's obvious and it doesn't _matter_. She slides both hands down her front, over her chest and stomach through the thin fabric of her nightgown; tries to map out what changes had prompted the shift in her wardrobe. She dares not look, dares not hope, but it's there all the same – the change and the realisation and the idea itself. It doesn't belong to her, but then again, it never has. Seelia had been right; it would be a statement of sorts, should she choose to empathise this at the coronation, as it always is. Every single time, every time she welcomes new life budding inside her, it's a statement, not unlike her daughter already is, and this is precisely what she had wanted to avoid, but it's not like Westeros can fix it. When has Westeros fixed _anything_ before?

"Cersei?" The sound of Jaime's voice is enough to make her flinch as it breaks through the whirlwind spinning faster and faster, slowly taking over her entirely, and she can almost see the startled look in her own wide eyes as she gets to her feet. It only makes her twin's frown deepen as he shuts the door behind his back, straightening up in alarm. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."Home, _home_ is what's wrong, it has been for a while, but it's not something she can just _say_ anymore. Just hours before, she had imagined how it would happen; every step of the way, but it's all come to a halt so suddenly, just like it had before. He'll catch up eventually, he always does – Jaime had been the only one to witness her resolution to fight and die, only to watch it melt away days later as she had made the discovery of her condition. Westeros can wait. Pentos would do for now, she supposes, until they're ready again. "It's nothing."

She sinks gratefully into his arms as they wrap around her, offering comfort for an issue she had told him nothing about. It's Jaime, the way she has always known him, and the thought is nearly enough to undo her completely as she clings to him in return; sways towards the bed to steer them both in the right direction.

"Cersei—"

"We have a coronation to attend," she reminds him, unlacing his garments while keeping her own in place with a purposefulness that hadn't existed a day ago. They would talk; she had decided it already, although the direction of her persuasion had rather rapidly changed. "Better to focus on that. We'll have to be prepared."

"We're not the ones being crowned," Jaime points out and the _this time_ slips away somewhere between the tentative glance he gives her alongside his playful smile. "What is there to prepare for?" When she doesn't respond, the grin widens with the sort of delightful alarm she'd grown not to fear. "What is it?" _What have you done?_ It's unspoken, but not quite as anxious as it had been years ago and the knot in her chest loosens up, inch by inch, until Cersei can breathe again.

"I don't know either," she admits and puts out the candle on her side of the bed, plunging them both in darkness before he can take another look at her expression, doubtlessly stuck somewhere between joyful and wicked and a tad frightening. She's not quite there, not quite done, but a part of her, petrified by the uncertainty that the execution had brought, comes alive again, settling back into spaces she'd tried to lock away from her mind lest they take over her entirely as they always have. "We'll find out soon enough, I think."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: This might be a good time to mention that I'm completely winging this fic.**

**By which I mean: Jaime wasn't supposed to get another chapter. Neither he nor Cersei actually had a POV chapter _at all__._ I started writing the general premise for this story directly after 8x06, all from Tyrion's POV and built around it and I genuinely intended to let him have this one already, but decided that a five year jump cut and two kids who sort of are actual people already might be too jarring given that he's an outsider to the situation, so I decided to introduce it through Jaime, who then proceeded to introduce it for nearly four thousand words.**

**Either way! Next chapter is, finally, mostly Tyrion- and Cersei-focused, which also means plenty of politics, so this is one last reprieve of genuine angst hidden by a supposedly peaceful existence. Hope you guys enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!**

* * *

"You're taking too long. Mother said I could have it back if you're not finished learning by today."

"She did _not_!"

"Did, too!"

"Did not!"

"Father!"

"Ellyn, you have not spoken a _word_ to your mother today."

The rebuttal is enough to make his daughter stop trying to tug the book out of her brother's arms for all of an instant and Jaime tries to bite back a smile as he finally deigns to look up at them. If he smiles, she wins, he's well aware of it by now. It's only ever an encouragement and it's obvious that she's picked up on it now as she nears him, a speculative glint in her eyes, too bright given her age. "So do I get to have it back?"

"Leave him be." It's too late to return to his work now, so Jaime rolls up the scroll with the calculations for the next purchase they'll need to make. Pentos and its walking on eggshells around slavery while still having it prosper makes any kind of interaction with Westeros rather tricky, as he'd been forced to learn, and dividing his attention between that and whatever it is that Ellyn really wants would be more trouble than it's worth. He moves over to the other side of the bench and it's all the invitation she needs to plant herself right next to him. "What do you need it for, anyway?"

"It's the history of the West—Western—"

"Westerlands," Jaime supplies, already prepared for where this is heading. Nowhere good, if he has to bet, but then again, he'd been the one to ask. Cersei would have handled this with more grace, he thinks, but she's spent the day handling one of their more tedious clients and entertaining him with the city's oddities before he could decide to get to the point. Why he keeps requesting to work with her specifically is beyond him – it's almost as if the man enjoys being insulted – but Jaime tries not to question it too much. Otherwise the opportunity would be passed on to him, and he could really do without the honour; especially if the alternative is spending his time on the kind of calculations that his sister finds much more tedious when compared to getting to insult people who have angered her.

"Westerlands," Ellyn agrees, as if it's the only explanation he could need. "I saw Seelia reading it to Cerion when he asked about his name and he asked again when Mother started teaching him to read and then she said I could have it when he finished reading the story, but he's not _done_ yet. And I saw—"

When the end of the onslaught of words from her general direction is this abrupt, it's always a reason to be alarmed, Jaime has noticed. His daughter is never really quiet unless she's scared or about to get in trouble.

"Saw what?" He prompts gently, a hand smoothing over her golden curls as she fidgets in her place. "_Ellyn_. What did you see?"

"Mother said—"

"I asked you a question," he reminds, as patient as he's persistent. _Mother said_, he'd come to know back when Joffrey had been little more than a baby, is a shortcut to fulfilling all kinds of demands, even when it's an outright lie. No one dares to oppose her, so why would any of her children bother with anything but an indirect order? "What did you see?"

"Nothing," she admits before long, and Jaime can't help but grin at the displeased edge to her tone. Things she's denied access to frustrate her, especially if they have to do with family, and he would have been proud if their family hadn't been quite what it happens to be. "But I heard her talking about her brother and if you have another one, he should be in the book. _Everyone_ is in the book. I wanted to know more. But then Lord Redfort got angry and she said he would feed the lions if he wasn't quiet and I don't think that he should. He wasn't very pleasant. _I'm_ the one who feeds the lions. They like me better. Sometimes—"

"Ellyn," Jaime interrupts, suddenly feeling rather faint. He's not sure which point on this list is the most unsettling - Cersei threatening a Westerosi Lord on his behalf, their daughter asking questions about her supposed uncle, or that very same daughter being allowed to feed a lion by one servant or another - but put together, it makes for an entirely new sort of anxiety. "Bring your brother inside. It's late for you to still be out here. Dinner should be done about now."

"But I—"

"_Now_, I said. Cerion, come." He redirects his attention once she turns on her heel and goes back inside without another word. It really is too much to ask of her to comply twice when she's displeased and there's no reason to waste time arguing about it.

"Papa?"

"Why don't you finish your story inside?"

"I'm almost done," his son boasts, grinning when Jaime tugs him to his feet. He's only four, but already more energetic than anyone had expected him to be, with how quiet he tends to be around strangers and at any other time, his father would have strongly encouraged it. "Do you want to hear?"

"Perhaps tomorrow," he offers no instead and calls for Seelia as soon as he's led him through the door. "Go find your sister. You can tell me later."

It's a sentence both their children hear far too often for comfort, Jaime is fully aware of it, but there's no other way they can think of. Security has a particular price and if it's suddenly gone up – it certainly sounds so from Ellyn's limited retelling of whatever it is that Cersei is trying to negotiate – then the need to know takes priority.

Back when they had first acquired the castle, they'd split it in two – the half with the sleeping quarters and dining rooms, and the half that housed the help and any guests or clients they might gave. A thin, nearly invisible line separates them and the only real point of contact is the path through the gardens and – apparently – the lion cages at the far end. The animals are yet another gift from the merchants that had started courting them both as soon as they had settled in. Cersei had been enchanted by the beasts – still is, really – and the fact that she had used them as a threat isn't particularly surprising. What he wants to know is _why_ and he picks up his pace, his sister's voice – perfectly even as per usual – floats into his field of hearing, soon followed by her unfortunate interlocutor.

"—to admit that it was a mistake on my part, Lady Lannister, but you must understand—"

"I must do nothing of the sort; this is an insult. And if I have to endure another asinine suggestion about my family's decisions, it will be the last one you ever make. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly so, Your G— My Lady. I'll make sure to pass your message along."

Just as Jaime steps into the half-light of this side of the garden, bathed in the last rays of the sunset, Cersei's stony expression melts into her most pleasant smile.

"I would be ever so grateful." Her eyes wander away from her client's face and towards the corner and Jaime sees some of her irritation soften, her smile growing ever so slightly wider in acknowledgment. "My Lord."

No use sticking to the shadows, then. He takes a step closer; sees Lord Redfort's body somehow curl up on itself even further. "My Lady."

The man shoots up to his feet. "Thank you for your assistance, My Lady," he bows quickly, offering the same courtesy to Jaime, "My Lord. I trust we'll meet again soon."

Cersei doesn't bother getting up to send him away. "Safe travels, Lord Redfort."

Despite the contempt in her every gesture as she waits for him to step out and locks the door, there's also the familiar sort of satisfaction that always follows a job well done, and Jaime allows himself to let his guard down by a fraction. If there's a sight more beautiful than Cersei after a triumph, no matter how mild – her face lighting up with glee, fingers curling and uncurling around the goblet in her hand like it might as well be someone's throat, eyes narrowing in a wordless challenge – then he's yet to find it, but her agitation is troubling all the same.

"What _happened_?" Jaime asks, nearing her as soon as they're alone again. Their guest is rather irritating to begin with and Cersei's patience is nowhere near stubborn enough to handle his presence, but even by her standards, outright threats are saved for special occasions.

"Nothing to worry about, you can be sure of that." She nuzzles into the side of his neck once she's in his arms and Jaime closes his eyes, relishing the contact. They're so much open about their affection now, but every touch they share still feels like a stolen blessing, her body fitting against his own like the second piece of a whole they can never achieve apart. "He decided to argue whether we could accommodate the court here if need be; thought he could _advice_ me on it, as if I'm not familiar with my own home and its security. We won't need to do anything of the sort," she adds when Jaime pulls away to look at her, alarmed. "The Stark boy will stay in King's Landing, which also relieves us of whatever is left of his family, the majority of his advisers, and his Kingsguard. Still, a small group of delegates _will_ visit and we'll need to be ready."

"Why us?" The thought makes him uneasy, though he can't pinpoint the reason. For all the uncertainty they'd faced in their new life, it's nothing compared to the memory of what Westeros had had to offer. It's still there, whenever he fails at keeping the memory at bay – the buildings collapsing around him, the dragon's screeching, the unbearable heat of the fire and everything burning, burning just like it had in his worst nightmares from decades ago. His hold on Cersei tightens without him entirely meaning to and she gives him an entirely too sober look in return. "Couldn't someone else—"

"As far as I'm aware, Tyrion will almost certainly join them – _has_ joined them; they're just about ready for the voyage. It has to be here." When he doesn't respond, she just sighs again, as defeated as she is persistent. "Don't tell me the thought has never crossed your mind."

"Of course it has." Nearly every day, if he's honest. He still remembers their farewell to the last word and he's been itching to tell him everything that had happened in the years since then – itching to hear what stories he'll offer in return, to see what his siblings would have to say to each other – but he had never dared. At first, he'd just wanted to forget about Westeros for as long as possible; then, it had become difficult to determine how many hands a raven scroll would change before finally reaching his brother and the thought had kept him just tense enough for him to keep his silence. "He isn't coming alone, is he?"

"I don't think so, no. I would have preferred it if he had, but if this is meant to be in any way an official visit, then no one would allow that; not where the three of us are involved." She shakes her head and Jaime would have assumed that the notion had angered her in the same way it angers him after a lifetime of being treated like a particularly unpredictable rabid dog alongside his brother and sister, but it's deeper than that; bitterer, somehow, and far heavier. "I've been so stupid. Trading with the most insignificant Westerosi lords possible is one thing, but letting the court – a fraction of it, even – of the Six Kingdoms into our city? It was always going to happen; of course it was. I should have never—"

"What?" He doesn't mean to snap, but – judging by Cersei's startled expression and the usual shield of wary curiosity following in its wake – it's precisely what the lone word sounds like. "Never had children? Never tried to live again? Never worked for this position at all? You wouldn't have survived."

"I would have," she protests immediately, true to form. "I had you."

It warms his heart, as far as confessions go, but, "You – or I – would have never felt safe if it had been just the two of us struggling to survive. It's our city." Her statement, subconscious as it had been, rings more true than any position he's ever held before. "If we're not safe here, we're not safe anywhere." He kisses her, light and quick and still deep enough to draw her in. "No one can hurt them now."

"But they can," She refuses to meet his gaze, but he can see the most peculiar sort of defeat take root in every inch of her body all the same. "The things I've done, the things I _keep doing_, Jaime—"

"It's all right," he soothes, ineffectual as it might be, reaching up to card his fingers through her hair as he keeps her close. It isn't and she's known for years – she wouldn't have said anything if it had been remotely all right – but it's all he can do in the face of an as of yet unknown threat. She terrifies him just a little when she's got something to lose, not for himself, but for _her_. He still remembers how Tommen's loss had made something inside her break until it had felt more like betrayal than grief. _They're ashes now, and we're still flesh and blood_, she had said, devotion shining through the hurt, and Jaime had spent the months after that believing that perhaps they could make it after all.

She had thought so too; breezing through every risk that the war had brought with unrepentant ruthlessness and ease in her step until her pregnancy had anchored her altogether too quickly once again. Cerion's birth had only made her more cautious, if it were at all possible. He can't deny how happy her children make her, but she's ever so careful, as if one wrong move would make them both disappear in an instant and it's frustrating to watch because she's _right_. They're all a rather easy target with all the contact with the common folk that they're required to have, but there's no other way. The other merchants in the city, competition as they might be, haven't started to resent them yet, but even years after their arrival, Jaime doubts it'll last when put to the test. They're Lannisters; it's impossible not to take a mile when someone gives an inch, and they'd already managed to buy enough people on their side to make everyone else uncomfortable.

(Another thing he finds impossible sometimes is not to wonder if perhaps it had never been about the place they rule over and the way the people see them; rather, it's the fact that they can't help but reach for more and more power that's the problem. It should be easy to stay away from the cliff's edge and keep your family as safe as you can, but it's always been in Cersei's nature to peek at everything waiting for her way down below, just like it's in Jaime's nature to follow her when she takes the jump. She always does. _They_ always do. It's the only truth he knows, even when nothing else is certain.)

"Forget about Westeros," he adds at last and does his best to ignore the joyless laughter that follows. "If Tyrion is coming, we have bigger things than supposed assassins to worry about." No cutthroat has ever made their lives as difficult as they themselves have managed to and, "Ellyn heard you mention him earlier today. If we're not careful, she'll start asking questions."

"As she should." Cersei shrugs at his astonished expression, far more pleased than he would have expected her to be. "It's her right. She's certainly old enough."

"She's _five_." _And she's not the heir to seven kingdoms anymore. _Letting her delve into their house's history, no matter how superficial, seems unnecessary. It's rather selfish of him, Jaime knows – Tyrion had always loved the children and nothing would stop them from trying to get to know them once he's informed about their existence – but it's still so _early_. Both of his siblings have their ideas of the proper upbringing of highborn children and it's easy to see the importance of it; almost as easy as seeing his children play and laugh without a care in the world and doing absolutely nothing to interfere.

"She's not going to be five forever. We hide enough from them as it is; am I supposed to lie about their own uncle?" A handful of years ago, she wouldn't have hesitated to do just that, but a lot has changed since then. The discovery of the truth about Joffrey's murder had spared him of her genuine hatred once their father's shadow had started dissipating over their collective heads. His help and understanding and, ultimately, the act of setting Jaime free had left her with little else than vague irritation, as much as she would loathe to admit it. She doesn't have to; Jaime can glimpse the truth in every reluctant admission she makes. This most recent one is no exception. "We can't hide them away for the rest of their lives. They'll inherit everything we have one day. If they know, they'll at least have him when the time comes. He would be glad to be there, if—"

_Oh, that's enough of this now_. He lets go of her only to force her to look into his eyes as he tugs her near again. "There is no _if_." There is, always will be when it's someone close to her, but she knows. There's nothing to be done about it now, assuming that a solution had ever existed, and it won't do to make her delve even deeper into her conviction that everything she touches is meant to die. "We're here now and so are they, and if you want them to know about him, they'll know and that'll be the end of it. I'm _tired_ of keeping plans of escape at every turn we make."

"Are you." It's a statement more than a question, the ever-smouldering coals in Cersei's eyes catching fire in the time it takes him to blink and Jaime takes another step to press them against one another just before she's had the chance to lash out. "If this is all so unpleasant, then perhaps—"

He kisses her, then, uprooting whatever doubtlessly merciless elaboration would have followed; kisses her until the beginnings of his anger melt away and her own helplessness follows suit; kisses her until all her agitation and fear and resentment make way to passion. About time, too – it had sparked up inside him the moment she'd as much as implied that they're in danger; the lifelong, inextricable desire to prove her wrong, keep her safe, mixing with the need to show her that she never needs to fear anything if she's got him. His sister knows that too, but he could never remind her enough. Not when she always responds to it so sweetly.

Her hand find their way up his neck, one framing his face, fingers digging into his skin as the other tugs on the short strands of his hair until he groans into her mouth and backs her into the sturdy stone of the house. He doesn't need to break away from her to start frantically hitching up the countless layers of tulle and satin and lace separating him from her skin, but he does it anyway, pulling away to watch her tug at the laces at the back until it loosens around her body and eases the way. He knows better than to tear this particular dress – it's a favourite and she would find it nowhere near as rewarding as he does – and luckily, he doesn't have to. She helps him along, one of her legs wrapping around his waist as she arches up into him, hungry for the reassurance he's offering, baseless as it might be.

"Jaime," she says. It doesn't sound particularly purposeful, more a way for her to feel the taste of it in her mouth and his only response is to kiss it from her lips, share it with her to make sure they both remembers what it means. It's just her calling out to him as she always has, but it belongs to her as well; as much as he himself does, and it's the knowledge of it that connects them further still. "Jaime, _Jaime_—"

_Yes_, he thinks, elated, _tell me_, as he lets go of her to let her cling to him to keep herself upright instead. Cersei can't hear it, but it doesn't matter – he's offering her another truth she'll never have to voice; another oath made in the silence between them. It's all-consuming enough to triumph over everything else and, like he's done a thousand times before, Jaime lets it drown the world out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: In the effort to catch up with posting on here instead of just AO3, I didn't realise I hadn't, in fact, posted the conclusion of this fic, which was finished over a month ago. Which, I suppose, serves as another reminder that everything generally gets posted much faster there.**

* * *

It takes him half a decade before the uncertainty nearly drives him out of his mind and, quite frankly, Tyrion is surprised that it's lasted this long.

It had been a good five years. Peaceful, too, this time without the tension that Robert's version of peace had brought with itself. King's Landing has all but completely risen out of its ashes now and it warms him to see it as populated as it is; to be able to plant seeds with the power he's been given and finally, for the first time in his life, see them grow. Things haven't gone back to how they had been – they never could – but they're _better_ and despite all the suffering it had taken to get here, he's content in the new world they've built.

It's built over the rubble of the old city once they've made the destruction manageable, however and, for all their cleaning, they'd never found an answer to the question that no one had dared to voice. Not to his face, at least, but Tyrion had heard it often enough all the same. _What happened to the Queen?_ No one had found a body or any of her regalia. Her chambers – in the in-tact part of the Keep, thankfully – had been deserted and upon Tyrion's unspoken command, no one but him had ever hone inside. As detached as he had been from his family, it's no one else's right to gawk at the remains of their lives. It's his life as well and he himself had only wandered in once, the difference from what he'd remembered giving him the sort of hope he couldn't really afford to cling to.

His sister's love for all sorts of useless, if precious, trinkets had fascinated him with its intensity when they had frequented each other's company during their time as Joffrey's Queen Regent and Hand respectively. Rings, brooches, necklaces, bracelets, chains, belts – in their earlier days, Cersei had announced her presence to him before her actual arrival with the amount of noise her jewellery had made, whether she'd realised it or not.

It's still scattered in various boxes and piles in several corners of her chambers – even now that she's not there, years after her disappearance – but there's significantly _less_ of it than he remembers. No self-respecting handmaiden – or thief, as unlikely as the prospect is given the chaos that had reigned in the Red Keep – would have left the room in the state of mild disarray that reigns in it now; not when the day of the attack had started as any other. It looks far more like the work of someone who had known what to look for, even if they'd been more than a little frantic. There are muddy footsteps by the door, too large and indistinct to have been left by his sister's doubtlessly elaborate shoes, an unmade corner of the bed, a torn strip of crimson fabric hanging from a loose nail near the door and Tyrion can imagine every step they'd taken, every word exchanged, his brother's panic before he finally drags their sister out of her chambers, and it's as much of a goodbye as he's ever going to get.

It's a wonder he hadn't cracked this far, really. It takes him another couple of days after the initial decision to find an excuse to use in front of their King – trade, of course, as per usual with the Free Cities – and all of an instant to realise that he needn't have bothered – "Go," is the only response he gets when he tentatively breaches the topic, along with a smile that would pass as benevolent if it hadn't been so all-knowing, and so he goes.

He had been very careful about avoiding news from Essos's general direction as much as possible for any self-respecting Hand, too afraid that he would get either a clear confirmation of his worst fears or no confirmation of anything at all. Having no expectations is the safest possible position to be in even if he fails at that too, every possible scenario racing through his mind every time something around him reminds him of his family.

Perhaps they had never made it outside at all and had ended up just two more indistinguishable bodies among the thousands littering the ground outside the castle. Perhaps they had reached the boat and ended up at sea and, with their luck, starved somewhere along the way when the wind had become stubborn. Perhaps his overgrown, insufferable brat of a sister had overturned it halfway through the Narrow Sea and drowned them both in a fit of rage. Perhaps they had reached the other side and had never managed to find their place in the new world and there is a _reason_ why they had been so quiet.

_Or perhaps_, he always finds himself thinking on those days, _perhaps they'd made it after all_. It's such a tiny, insignificant voice in his head and one he frequently tries to force into silence before it grows into something too big to handle, but it's there all the same and the day Tyrion submits to it is the day he starts planning for his voyage to Pentos.

It's a small crew that he takes with himself – the smaller it is, the quieter he's going to be, and quiet is all he wants. There's no telling what he's going to find once he makes his way there, after all. For all he knows, his siblings might have ended up as some local merchant's non-slaves or might have turned to the roles of the despots they had always played so well when need be and if he wants to find them, he'll need to know which one it is. It's nothing in the middle, he's sure; there's no way he could just find them in a house in the middle of the city, on an ordinary street with a hundred identical buildings around it. It's not who they are and before he manages to figure out who they are now, it wouldn't be particularly wise to let the word of his arrival roam free. He sends a messenger ahead to figure out the finer details and do some of the searching for him and finally, they set sail.

He'd made the trip two times in a decade. The first time, with Daenerys and her armies, he had been so very certain of his choice that it seems nearly laughable now. Despite how resolute he had been back then, everything inside him had shrivelled up every time he had imagined the war that would surely follow and every day – every action he'd taken – had slowly chipped away at that resolution until there had been nothing left. It had cost him everything, or so he'd thought, and the idea of finding out that he'd been wrong is about as terrifying as being proven right. The diverging path in front of him still haunts him when they sail into the harbour, days and days later, and Tyrion takes in the picture as it slowly unfolds in front of him.

It's the first time he rather hopes his siblings had opted for being despots, after all. The city is so tightly packed into itself that it'd be impossible to run into someone by pure luck, the stifling heat makes it difficult to stay out in the streets for long, as he's assured as soon as he walks through the city gates, and he should have really done away with the number of guards shadowing him as subtly as possible if he had hoped to remain inconspicuous. It's barely an official visit and protocol would have been nowhere near as important for trading with the local merchants if they hadn't also been the people in power, but this is far too specific for him to follow every official channel he can find. The less traces he leaves, the better; it's usually the case with foreign politics. It makes washing his hands of the consequences ever so slightly easier if it comes to that, he's found.

He had planned on drawing attention to himself only in order to ask for at least relative directions, but as it turns out, he doesn't need to – it seems that all roads eventually lead to the exact same place – an even busier, open area in the distance – and he follows, eager to find the source of disturbance. If he knows his family at all, this is where they'll be and as the crowd grows thicker and more difficult to navigate, the fragments of conversation that the wind carries to him only serve to confirm that. It's far too early and he could easily be imagining it and yet he can't stop the immense relief from flooding through his body as someone new speaks up after being prompted to – even if he hasn't quite made it to the square yet, there's no mistaking the voices he's known his entire life.

If cats could speak, Tyrion had thought as a child, they would all sound like his sister – the half-hissed, half-purred words, the smooth cadence of her speech, the contempt in her tone, the off-handed disregard about anything she didn't see as even relatively important. It's the first thought that crosses his mind now, ridiculous as it is, and the sight of her as he finally breaks through the last people in front of the podium and the small gathering on it makes him weak at the knees even before he looks to her right and sees his brother sprawled in his chair, picking at an invisible smudge on his sword handle in order to keep himself busy.

_Five years._ And they're exactly the way he remembers them, no matter how long he stares and this is all rather pathetic, really; it could have saved him so much grief if he had just thought to _look_. Here they are, alive and untouched and untouchable as ever, high above everyone else as the common folk gather around them as if they're about to be presented with the greatest entertainment possible. If it hadn't been so typical, he might have not believed that it's not yet another hope-driven dream of the sort that had plagued him for the better part of the time they had spent apart.

"—to know what treason looks like when I see it," Cersei is saying when he lets the conversation filter into his mind once again. She's a loud, garish splash of gold and red amidst the sea of thin, nearly colourless clothes that the climate in Pentos requires and the silver tiara in her hair – longer again, though not quite as long as he remembers, and cascading over her bare shoulders – is the finishing touch, glinting under the unforgiving sun when she leans back into her seat. "But that isn't something you were unaware of; he's already admitted it in front of everyone in this city. If it were up to me, this Council meeting would have been rendered unnecessary."

"It's up to all of us, My Lady," a man fires back – the prince, if Tyrion had to guess, given the way he's separated from the tight half-circle that the rest of what have to be the merchant lords form.

"It's so kind of you to remind us." Cersei's smile is radiant and the man on her left titters behind his closed fist, his laughter morphing into a cough as soon as their supposed leader's eyes turn to him. "The rest of _us_ have already come to a decision, My Prince. As far as I understand, we have only gathered here today to wait for your judgement on the matter – this matter, or any other."

It occurs to him, then, that he's witnessing a trial. Not just one, either, because this is a common practice scattered across the world; letting everyone voice their grievances and be judged by the local rulers on a certain day of every month. It's rather practical, if massively inconvenient for him in particular – if he's right, they'll be here all day. The thought of having to hide and stay quiet until nightfall is nearly unbearable under the circumstances and Tyrion doesn't even make an effort at it. If his presence alone is enough to interrupt them, then it can't be that important to begin with, can it?

"Do you speak for the entirety of your caste?" The prince's hesitation seeps through every word and he fidgets in his place when Jaime makes a show of sighing as loudly as possible, slouching even further into his seat. He can understand the man's unease somewhat – the Council, if this is truly what they are, looks so thoroughly bored that they might as well have been discussing the weather. It must be true, then – they really have been here a while already, or perhaps they just tend to be indifferent towards the lives they're playing with. It's not an easy possibility to rule out.

"We have already examined it at length. You're free to ask them, if you would like; they can speak for themselves," she adds with a generous gesture at her surroundings. They won't, Tyrion knows from experience – people rarely ever do when a Lannister is talking, no matter how much of a minority they happen to be at the time.

"If none of you think there's a need for a more thorough discussion—"

"There is nothing to discuss," Cersei cuts him off, her smile turning brighter by the moment now that she knows she's got the upper hand. "Treason is punishable by death; it doesn't matter who swings the sword. Would you call our executioner a murderer for carrying out an order? If Lord Baerroris wanted to punish the man who caused him so much grief without waiting a fortnight for us to decide that he could, then I cannot truly blame him for it."

The prince arches an eyebrow and Tyrion can't help but wonder how he hadn't learnt not to rise to the bait over the course of years in his sister's company. Then again, perhaps the man hadn't been around for quite so long: a moment later, he does just that. "Would you like to make a suggestion about the frequency of our meetings, My Lady?"

She barely bothers with a courteous grimace this time. "I would much better like to continue with our schedule."

It's enough of a hint for the rest of the Council to bring their attention back to the matters at hand and Jaime isn't an exception – his eyes sweep over the crowd in search of the unfortunate soul who would become a source of discussion soon enough and Tyrion can pinpoint the instant when his brother's eyes land on him. It's such a familiar display of shock – his suddenly stiff posture, his wide, disbelieving glance, the smile he allows himself without fully realising that he'd reacted at all; the inevitable glance in Cersei's direction a moment later, even. He taps her shoulder unceremoniously and she gravitates towards him without a trace of hesitation, nodding at whatever it is that he says before turning her gaze back towards the prince and Jaime gets to his feet with a hasty, "You'll have to excuse me," before climbing off of the platform and disappearing into the curtains right behind it.

It's slow enough – deliberate enough – as a process that Tyrion knows that he's supposed to follow without waiting for his brother to plunge himself into the mass of his own subjects. It wouldn't do either of them any favours and he knows better than to have them both so close to the love of the people if his identity is revealed. It's impossible to tell how people would react and it's an absurd day to be risking his life in, so Tyrion draws the attention of the guard closest to him and wordlessly points him towards the tent before starting to elbow his way through the square.

It doesn't take him long to get there – everyone is too enthralled by the next dispute to pay him any mind – and soon enough, he pushed the heavy curtains open without waiting for an invitation. There he is, then, sitting by a large table; his wretched, idiot brother who hadn't managed to say a _word_ for over _five years_ and Tyrion would have struck him, he likes to think; he most definitely would have if Jaime's arms hadn't wrapped around him an instant later, the grip of his embrace almost tight enough to hurt.

"Brother," he greets, voice far too collected given how tense his entire body feels. "Cersei thought you might grace us with your presence."

"And she couldn't say so, could she?" But then again, of course not. She had always been rather careful with communication when it isn't face to face and he can see why Jaime had been on her side this time, although, "You're both feeling comfortable, I see."

"How could we not?" Jaime laughs, the sound as bewildered as Tyrion feels. "Money is the only thing they worship here and no one is as good at providing more of it as Lannisters are. Everyone knows that. It took less than a year before they took us in as one of their own."

"And now you've got them all in your pockets." It feels so silly, now, that he had waited so long, too afraid that he would find some terrible, final, undeniable truth in Pentos instead of his family, but here they are, as if by magic, flaunting their unbelievable arrogance like they always have. He thinks his heart might beat a hole through his chest any moment now if he doesn't pull himself together. "Father would have been proud."

"I certainly hope not. Come." Jaime urges him through another entrance – an exit, in this case – as the constant buzz of conversation outside grows louder. "Cersei can manage without me; this might take all day. No sense in keeping you here for the rest of it. The Council isn't too fond of personal deals without any record left behind and I'm afraid that's exactly what we have in store this time."

Puzzled and elated and still a little cautious, Tyrion has no choice but to obey.

The trip through the city is slow and might have been dreadfully dull if not for the way everything is bursting with life. It's a while before the litter comes to a halt again and in that time, he manages to take in more of Pentos than he had ever learnt from the books writer about it. His brother rides ahead as per usual and the streets clear for him easily, but it's still evident that everything between the city walls is packed full of people. It's as dirty and disorganised as King's Landing had been once – as it's starting to be once more, day after day, much to his pleasure – and Tyrion carefully puts the thought away for another time. His regrets, substantial as they are, are nothing compared to the present and, ultimately, the home revealed in front of him once they stop for good.

It _is_ a home, he thinks as he climbs off, no matter how much it resembles any other fortress. The stone walls seem to be wrapped around a rather vast empty space – a garden, he realises once Jaime pushes the gates open – and the small castle in the middle of it looks as if it's made from solid stone, cold and grey and impenetrable. The windows in the side buildings are wide enough to nearly reach the ground and the place is full of life; several pairs of eyes from the workers on the property turning towards them as the doors slam shut behind his brother's back. Jaime winces, a hesitant smile dawning on his face as he turns to look at him again.

"I didn't imagine it happening like this," he admits, only bothering to elaborate at the sight of the mystified expression he gets in return. "Cersei had planned—"

"Father?"

The new voice makes them both freeze. Unexpectedly, Tyrion finds himself recovering first as he glances towards the main staircase.

The girl standing there – no older than five, as he well knows – is wearing a rather eye-wateringly red dress, the heavy curtain of her golden hair draped over her shoulders as she stares, unmoving, the grins and nears them, half-running to reach the gardens before falling breathlessly quiet.

"You're Uncle Tyrion," she blurts out before he can say anything and he nods, at too much of a loss to respond just yet. _It's her I tried to save_, he remembers, _even if I didn't know it then_. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like yesterday. "I'm Ellyn. Mother said you would be visiting. You're in my book."

"Oh, am I?" He finds his voice at last. It's not much of an introduction, but it seems to encourage her all the same.

"You are. Mother said I could ask about it if you let me because books don't always tell the truth but you might. Do you want to see my lions?"

"Ellyn," Jaime warns. No one is particularly surprised – least of all Jaime himself – when it falls on deaf ears. "Westeros is a very long way away and travel by sea can be tiring. Perhaps your uncle would prefer—"

"No, I don't think I would, actually," he counters, valiantly ignoring the daggers his brother is glaring through his back. "It would be a pleasure, Ellyn. I would love to see the lions."

~.~

Dinner, a small eternity later, is a relatively quiet affair when compared to the afternoon he had had, Tyrion can't help but note, not without some relief. It's what he remembers from the rare times of all three of them together: his siblings keep up the conversation with him while also speaking through their usual silent glances over the candle-lit table, the children filling the occasional silences with all sorts of petty arguing, the inescapable smell of the city and the sea soaking through every bite of food. Ellyn is the only one arguing, to be precise, which is familiar too – she's loud and overbearing and would have reminded him far too much of his eldest nephew if it hadn't been for the gentleness that shines through on occasion. Cerion – far more cautious but just as curious – had been a far bigger surprise than her attitude with his mere existence. He's all smiles and honey-blonde curls like Tyrion's own, and altogether too much energy to spend the evening sitting still. He would have made quite a prince, really, and his sister would have made quite a queen, considering her already apparent ability to convince anyone of anything. It's not something he should be thinking about – those days are past them now and it's no use digging into Cersei's doubtlessly unhealed wounds now that they're already where they are; a world away from what they've been before while remaining the exact same people he'd always known.

His sister had deigned to join them long after sunset and well into dinner, evidently exhausted but with the same half-masked fire in her eyes that had driven her all her life. She'd stood by the door for a few moments before he'd noticed her and had then given him a quick flash of a smile while taking her place.

"Brother," she'd acknowledged, as casually as she'd greeted the rest of her family, as if it was no surprise at all that he'd joined them. "Welcome to Pentos."

It had all been rather customary, the greeting he's used to giving diplomats he's not built any kind of relationship with, and it makes him more anxious than Tyrion would have liked to admit. It's what makes every glance in her direction a risk while he and Jaime keep up the sort of aimless conversation that they'd always enjoyed and it's almost a relief when Cersei stops pretending to pick at her food and gets to her feet, the sound of her chair dragging across the marble floor making him stand on edge before she'd even spoken.

When she does, it isn't of much help at all.

"Tyrion, a word, if I may."

She doesn't wait for a response, but there isn't one either way and – not without a final look in Jaime's direction that only earns him a shrug – Tyrion nods and follows her through the twists and turns of the corridors the castle is plagued with until they end up at yet another door tucked away from the main living space in the building. Her study, he assumes, but quickly corrects himself once he looks at the table in the centre of the room – _their_ study. There are scrolls filled with contracts and calculations littering every flat surface, the former written out in Cersei's intricate penmanship while the latter seems to be entirely made out of the wide, bold lines of Jaime's quill. It's a lived-in space, has been for years; more comfortable than anything he had expected even as his sister points him towards one of the chairs and takes the other. She pours them both a goblet of wine before bracing herself to speak, taking a generous sip to signal that he can do the same - it's an old habit of theirs, redundant as it is now; making sure to show that it's safe before offering it, and Tyrion follows her example. The wall behind her is dominated by a family portrait, large and imposing, and he finds himself examining it while waiting for her to find whatever it is that she's looking for in one of the drawers.

It's recent, that much is obvious. He can tell by his siblings's clothing – all light, gentler fabrics than the Westerosi weather had allowed in winter – and in their appearance as well. Half of Cersei's hair is braided to the back and Jaime's cut his own until he's the Lord Commander he remembers once again and the children with their identical smiles are nearly perfect mirrors of them, four sets of green eyes staring sightlessly back at him, the Lannister lion covering every single bit of fabric it could possibly be appropriate on. It's all a little uncanny, really. _Twins_, he thinks, and doesn't realise that he'd let the word slip out before he gets another brief, reserved smile in response.

"Not quite. Ellyn was first; Cerion was born less than a year later."

"I didn't expect—"

"No," Cersei agrees and finally sits down, only to start fidgeting with one of the stray documents instead. "I didn't either, to tell you the truth. I didn't expect any of _this_."

"I was wrong," he says despite the lack of a clear prompt and she glances up, as taken aback by the outburst as he himself is. "I was wrong about Daenerys. I was wrong about what would happen and what she could do. I never wanted it to get this far. I was wrong about the timing, too. If Jaime had told you to surrender earlier—"

"Jaime?" It's a single word, but it sounds puzzled enough for Tyrion to dare meet his sister's eyes again. "Jaime got to me much later. He had nothing to do with the surrender." Her face darkens at the silence that follows and Cersei turns away, gaze trained on the garden they can see through the window as if it'll do a good enough job at distracting her_. I was wrong about you as well, then_, he wants to say, but it's too late – she beats him to it a moment later. "I didn't hate them."

"Them?" He knows already, of course he does; remembers every word he'd said to her on that fateful day, but he desperately needs her to say it.

"The people. You were right; I didn't care. I still don't – them or the ones in this city or anyone, really." Anyone but us, he knows, but she wouldn't dare say it just yet. "But I didn't hate them. I never thought I would watch them all die."

"I know."

"I didn't want—"

"I _know_."

She's almost ethereal when she looks at him again; the moonlight shining over them both drowning out her pale colours until she's more a vision than the reality he's managed to insert himself into. There's doubt written all over her face, as well as a hint of suspicion and it's as easy to read her as it's always been – both are emotions he's quite familiar with, coming from her – but there's still something amiss. Perhaps it's happiness – he's never seen her happy before and she _must_ be now. There's nothing that she could possibly be missing, except—

"I wanted to tell you," she says at last, so quiet that he can barely make out the words. "For so long after we arrived, I wanted to send a word; to tell you all about it. To tell you that you'd been right about me and I didn't listen until it was too late."

It's true, gods curse her, but it's still impossible to refrain from protesting. "King's Landing isn't on you."

"It is. It's quite all right; I've had years to think about it. Years and distance and a whole new world, and all I want—"

"What?" It's a question he's never stopped asking, even if it's the first time he's voiced it. _What is it that you really want?_ Whatever it is – family, gold, power – she has it all already. She's _always_ had it all in a way, even in their darkest times and Tyrion prepares himself for the worst, but when his sister speaks again, she's not the Cersei standing in the heart of the empire she's built for herself. It's quiet and hesitant and everything she isn't; everything he barely remembers from the brief moments in their distant past when she had almost been a child like any other.

"Home." It's such a simple admission, but it digs deep all the same; cuts through the space between them like a knife. "That's what I want."

"You've made a beautiful home here." And he knows, he knows what she means, but soldiers on anyway in the feeble hope that he's misunderstood. "And if you would ever like to sail back to Westeros, the Red Keep could still be one for you."

"Don't be obtuse; it doesn't suit you." And there they are again, the weight of the world melting away once she snaps at him again. "Not the Red Keep; no. I could never go back there no matter what, but going back _home_ isn't an option either, is it?"

As much as she stresses on the word, she can't bear to say the name and suddenly, it makes sense; the missing piece of her puzzle falling into place. _Longing_. It's never really sated, it appears, no matter what she does. It would have been terrifying if it hadn't been quite so difficult to witness.

"I can't see why not." No one would ever _stop_ them from reclaiming it if the only living heir to the Lannisters of the Rock – and Hand of the King – approves of it and there's no way she doesn't know, but Cersei's already shaking her head, brisk and decisive.

"I never could. None of us ever could, it's too—"

"Never is a rather long time." _It's too dangerous_, she had meant to say, perhaps, or _too humiliating_ or _too ordinary_ and chances are she won't ever return to Westeros once she's lost her crown, but as long as she hasn't spoken any of it out loud, it's easy to imagine all the ways he can prove her – or his entire family, really – wrong. He reaches across the wooden surface, the red-and-gold of his sleeves glistening under the watchful eye of the moon. She doesn't move, her hold tightening around the edge of the table at the gesture, but he refuses to budge; not this time. None of his earlier attempts, scattered through a lifetime of missed opportunities, had ever been returned, but if she can surprise him once, then she can do it again and this time, he won't have to spend half a decade wondering if his siblings had lived to tell the tale. "It's too bold to brand it with such a promise, even for you."

"It's not a promise I haven't made before," Cersei retorts, but there's no heat to it now and Tyrion finds it in himself to smile again, far less alert than he had ever been before.

"No," he allows. She's always been bold when it comes to long-term decisions, regardless of how regrettable they are; too much so for his tastes, on occasion, but it's the undeniable truth they'd always found common ground over. "Make this your exception, then."

It's too close to a command for her not to stubbornly hold on to her conviction for all of an instant, but the change is there all the same and when he turns his outstretched palm up expectantly, she carefully releases the grip that had kept her at a safe distance. It's an offering, nothing more, and it barely means anything at all when made like this – there are no oaths to be made, no plan to follow, no world to weigh down on their shoulders when they're all alone as Lannisters tend to be – but the trepidation still fills the air between them, the tension finally releasing once she mirrors him and, before he knows it, his sister's fingers close around his own, grip as tight as Jaime's always is, and don't let go of him again.


End file.
